The Tyger and the Lamb
by anoesis
Summary: Odd, really, that a man so darkly experienced could prove to be so very innocent.
1. Realisation

**The Tyger and the Lamb**

Chapter One

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><p>The seat next to his was often the only one free. That was how it had started.<p>

She sat next to him because no one else would. She talked to him because that was her nature. Eventually he responded, even though it was against his. She lent him a quill when his snapped. Gave him a Christmas card. Wished him a happy birthday. Brought him a stick of rock back from her holiday in Eastbourne.

He treated her with cool suspicion, at first. After the first few months, that warmed to a cool acceptance. Then one day, when she was running a little late, she caught him looking around anxiously, apparently searching for her. When he caught sight of her he seemed to relax, just ever so slightly. The corners of his eyes crinkled when she wished him a good morning.

Thankfully, the Headmistress had chosen that moment to summon their attention because Hermione doubted she could have spoken another word. She was in the middle of a sudden revelation and dangerously close to tears. She didn't catch a single word of that evening's staff meeting.

Apparently, all you needed to win Snape over was a little bit of niceness. She wondered how many people had ever bothered to find that out. The thought made her so sad that she found herself inviting him back to her office for a cup of tea. Of course, she actually asked for his help in understanding the quantities used in a medieval potions primer that Harry had found in a car boot sale and had thought she might like. Either way, she was surprised when he said yes.

Tea became a weekly thing. Hermione made certain to keep it very relaxed, bringing her marking or opening her book. She soon had Harry and Ginny scouring second hand shops for interesting conversation starters, and never ceased to be astounded at just how much Snape was able to decipher or explain about each battered pamphlet or crumpled scroll that she dropped on the coffee table. When she realised that he had begun to stay longer and longer, she celebrated quietly, swapping the pot of tea for a bottle of wine and the occasional glass of brandy.

Sometimes she caught him watching her, a slightly puzzled expression on his face, as if something about her confused him. She was tempted to ask him what it was, but doubted he'd take kindly to it. It was then that she realised how much she didn't want to jeopardise the rather fragile thing forming between them. It felt a bit too intense to just be a friendship, but there had never been anything in his manner to suggest it might be something more.

Which was rather a shame.

Teaching in a boarding school was very different from being a pupil in one. There were no intense friendships, none of the enforced intimacy of the dormitory or the camaraderie of the common room. She saw her fellow teachers during meal times, in the staff room, or during meetings. She didn't think of herself as lonely, of course not, but soon came to realise that her and Snape's informal meetings were the highlight of her week. Worse, she found herself wishing that he didn't have to leave.

She missed him all through the summer.

Oh, she had a wonderful time catching up with friends and family, but by late August she was almost ridiculously eager to return to Scotland. She wanted to see him again, to see if the corners of his eyes crinkled when he saw her. She wanted to give him his souvenir from Brittany to see what he made of it. The bottle of Calvados was a far cry from a seaside stick of rock, but she wanted him to know that _he_ was more than a stick of rock to her.

She didn't get to see him until the first staff meeting. His eyes had crinkled at the edges, just as she had hoped they might. Then he had smiled; a brief, shy little crooked smile. It was then that she had known that _something more_ with Snape would be really rather lovely.

* * *

><p>She handed over his present that evening when he followed her back to her office for a cup of tea. He didn't even open the gift bag, just felt its weight and realised that it must be something more than themed confectionary. He was a little quiet after that. Quiet even for him. Hermione busied herself making tea (she had rather been hoping he might offer to share his present) and tried to fill the awkward silence.<p>

She found herself telling him about eating omelettes and drinking cool cider from bowls outside a cafe in Brest. She told him about the folk dancers she had seen with their strange head dresses, the market in Saint-Malo, and the little old man in Morlaix who had taken her inside the tiny little church on his street to see the medieval carvings of the saints. She went on to describe the hot chocolate she'd drunk in Quimper, dark and bitter and sinful, only she hadn't quite managed to say the last word. She'd suddenly realised he was staring at her, watching her mouth as she spoke, and she had flushed and stammered to a halt.

Things changed after that.

Not overtly, but enough to convince her that she hadn't been wrong. He allowed himself to stay an extra ten minutes in her rooms when he visited. When she sat beside him for meetings he would offer her one of his mints. They were strong and crumbly and she would still be able to feel the sharp coolness on her tongue by the end of the meeting.

There was talk of reinstating the Tri Wizard Tournament now that the threat of sabotage had faded. This meant a lot more meetings, usually in the evening, when no whisper of what they were discussing would reach the students. On these nights, when there was a fair certainty that the corridors would be deserted, Snape would walk her to her door. One evening, he carried her books for her. It was such a charming gesture, so utterly unexpected, that she had invited him inside.

He accepted, even though it was two days until he normally called on her. This was outside the normal rules and he seemed acutely aware of it, sitting stiffly in his usual chair beneath the lamp. She fussed with the tea things, oddly grateful for something to do. He picked up the old potions primer from its shelf by his chair, idly turning the pages, his eyes following her across the room.

All he seemed to do was watch her, that look of puzzled concentration on his face. She began to wonder if all he wished to do was look at her. As if she were some sort of precious ingredient he had managed to collect, an object to admire from afar. She had no wish to join his collection of keepsakes sitting in formaldehyde on his mantelpiece, figuratively or literally.

She put the kettle down. "What is this, Snape?"

His eyes dropped. "What is what?"

"This thing between us. It feels as if we are . . . dating isn't the right word. Are you . . . are you _courting_ me?"

He didn't look up, but his grip tightened on the delicate pages of the book. He swallowed. "Would that be unwelcome to you?"

"Not at all," she answered promptly, watching in fascination as his fingertips regained some of their colour. He raised his head a little then; dark, hopeful eyes seeking hers from under his lashes. "I was simply wondering why you haven't kissed me yet."

"What?"

"I've been waiting for a physical expression of your esteem," she paraphrased.

He was staring at her now, his black eyes huge in his pale face. "A kiss?"

"Yes," she breathed, no longer smiling. Something seemed to have slipped inside her chest and her heart wasn't beating quite how it should.

He frowned and looked away. "It seemed a little presumptuous."

Hermione swallowed her disappointment. "Well, I suppose you really ought to take me to Paris or shower me with diamonds first," she sighed. "At the very least I should hold out for a moonlit picnic."

It wasn't surprising that he left so shortly afterwards. She'd done something wrong, that much was obvious. He paused at the doorway, and for a fleeting moment Hermione had thought he'd been finally about to kiss her. He _was_ courting her, after all. Instead, he had nodded curtly and swept away down the dark corridor. Hermione watched him go until he disappeared beyond the weak light of the torches.

She tidied away the tea things before turning out the lights and letting herself into her little bedroom. She got ready for bed distractedly, staring thoughtfully at herself in the mirror while she cleaned her teeth. Kissing her would be presumptuous, would it? She could only assume that he was conscious of the difference in their ages and was concerned about rushing her into anything. Yet she had expressly told him that she wished to be kissed.

Her normally clear brown eyes stared back at her, clouded with confusion and disappointment. The odd feeling had gone from her chest and she found that she missed it. All that was left was a heavy sort of anxiety in the pit of her stomach; the worry that she might have pushed him too far. Somehow lessened herself in his eyes.

* * *

><p>When she sat next to him the following morning, nothing seemed to have changed. He returned her greeting, passed the pepper at her request, and stalked off to teach, much the same as usual.<p>

She bit her lip, idly toying with the remains of her scrambled eggs. Recently, his closed, careful nature had come to fascinate her. Now it left her terribly uncertain.

The next morning she managed to greet him more calmly. It was ridiculous, she realised, to expect him to give her any sort of indication of his feelings in front of the entire school. She would just have to wait until later that day and hope that he still intended to join her after dinner.

Somehow she got through her lessons without mishap. She gave Snape a brief description of the project she'd just started her sixth year students on, but she wasn't certain if he was listening. She certainly wasn't. The knot in her stomach had returned and she spent much of the meal pushing her cottage pie from one side of the plate to the other. After dinner, she had a brief one-on-one meeting with Headmistress McGonagall about the possibility of class trips for the older years – unlikely to be approved, apparently – then returned to her rooms to fret.

The problem was she had no idea how the evening might progress. She might be about to spend a rather depressing evening alone with a bottle of wine, or she might be about to spend an entirely different sort of evening altogether. She showered, used her favourite body cream, but dressed conservatively. She built the fire up in her little office, chilled the wine, but didn't bother fetching the glasses from their home in the cupboard next to the window. Then she sat on the edge of her armchair's seat and tried not to bite her nails.

The knock sounded at her door at precisely nine o'clock.

She stood back to let him inside, but rather than joining her, he hovered at the threshold and cleared his throat.

"Will you walk with me?"

"Of course," she answered, stepping out into the corridor. He wasn't wearing an outside cloak so she didn't bother fetching hers down from the hook. He waited politely for her while she warded her door, then led her towards the stairs.

She hoped he might take her hand, or tuck her arm through his, but of course he didn't. Snape on display was even more closed off and guarded than the man who visited her rooms, and was unlikely ever to behave in a less than professional manner whilst in the school corridors. He did, however, adjust his gait to match hers, and the two of them walked in silence through the quiet school.

Once they reached the ground floor she was intrigued that they didn't turn left towards the main door, but right, towards the dungeon steps. Her interest grew as she realised that he was leading her towards his private office. She'd never trespassed into his space before, happy to receive him in her rooms, where he was free to leave any time he wished.

The fire was lit, its cheerful flames filling the room with warmth and light. In front of the fire was a soft looking rug, piled with cushions. Enchanted, Hermione sank down onto her knees to explore further. There was a pot of hot chocolate, two cups and a little dish of cream on a tray by the hearth. There was also a little covered basket filled with bread, crumpets and muffins and a pat of butter wrapped in waxed paper.

"I know it isn't exactly a picnic," Snape apologised. "And we'll have to wait for the fire to burn down before we can toast anything, but I thought, seeing as we aren't able to leave the school during term time – except in emergencies – that we could pretend that it was. A picnic. The moon doesn't shine on this side of the castle until later, but . . ."

"It's perfect!" she declared, unable to allow him to torture himself further. She slipped off her shoes and wiggled her toes into the heavy pile of the sheepskin rug. "Shall I pour?"

The chocolate smelled heavenly, rich and dark, flowing thickly into the little cups. She remembered how she had left the word _sinful_ hanging between them the last time they had spoken about this drink and couldn't stop the smile that crept over her lips. "Would you like cream? Or are we saving it for later?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I didn't think to provide a pudding," he apologised, looking miserable. "I didn't think you'd want one this late."

"You're right, of course," she smiled, adding a generous dollop of cream to each cup, and reassessing the situation. The rug in front of the fire, the pile of cushions, the cream – was it so strange that she should have assumed Snape was planning a seduction? The hot chocolate alone was enough to leave her weak at the knees.

He sat facing her, his long legs stretched out awkwardly in front, his hair falling over his face. It was such an adorably boyish pose that she had to smile. This was the Snape that fascinated her the most; this oddly earnest, oddly young man who could ignore her during the day while planning a gesture like this. The man who walked her back to her room as long as no one else was there to see. The man who had carried her books. The man who had once, just once, flashed her a crooked little smile of such disarming sweetness that she had wasted entire afternoons wondering how she could persuade him to smile at her again.

She handed him his cup, and then, before she could stop herself, reached up to brush his hair back from his face.

He froze under her hand, and she was suddenly aware that this was the first time she had ever reached out to touch him; the occasional knocked elbow whilst walking or the even less common handshake didn't count. Thinking about touching him, even talking about kissing him, hadn't quite prepared her for this. The odd feeling was back in her chest, this time prickling down her spine and across her breasts. It crept down her arms and made her fingers tremble against his skin. She stroked his hair back again, hooking it behind his ear before turning back to face the fire. She picked up her own drink, staring at the flames, embarrassed by her reaction to him.

Unlike her, Snape hadn't provided any props to revive a fallen conversation. He either didn't care to fill the heavy silence or, more likely, didn't know how. Hermione watched the fire begin to burn itself out, hoping that he would attribute the pinkness of her cheeks to the warmth of the hearth as she sipped her drink, wondering how he would react if she were to reach out and touch him again. He sat quietly beside her, his face turned towards the flames. If he watched her, he did it too carefully for her to tell.

Some of the tension diffused once Snape decided that the fire was ready for toasting and began readying the plates and unpacking the little basket of food.

Hermione had never used a toasting fork before and watched in interest as he held the bread low over the glowing embers. One side got a little burnt but, spread thickly with butter, it was still the most delicious thing she could remember eating in years.

They sat together peaceably enough, him toasting, her buttering, the room silent save for the pop of the fire, the scraping of the butter knife, and the crunch of toast. It wasn't quite a moonlit picnic and it was too early for a midnight feast, but it was just as magical. She wondered who Snape might have learned to do this with. His parents, perhaps? Lily? Or someone else who she had never heard of? There was an awful lot she had yet to learn about him. It wasn't a frightening thought.

Feeling drowsy and pleasantly full, she leant back against the cushions, watching him through half-closed eyes as he licked the butter from his fingers. The moon had finally edged its way into the corner of the window, its silvery rays filtering greenly across the lake.

"You're allowed to kiss me now," she whispered.

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><p><em><strong>Authors note:<strong> Huge thanks go to **Sevvysgirl253** for offering to beta for me! Any remaining mistakes are all mine._

_Next chapter might take a while to be finished, but will be with you eventually!_


	2. Expectation

**AN**: _I can only apologise for the huge delay between chapters. Family stuff happened. I took so long that my beta actually chose to retire from fanfic, so only the first half of this has been proofed. However, for that half, I shall be eternally grateful to **Sevvysgirl253**_

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><p><span>Chapter Two<span>

There were kisses, Hermione decided, and then there were _kisses_. And then there were _first_ kisses.

She hadn't had very many of those, although there had been lots of the later sort, and it came of something of a jolt to realise that a first kiss could still feel just as new. Just as terrifying. Kisses could become as casual and as comfortable as holding hands or resting against someone in front of the fire – not that she had any experience of those with Snape, either – and she had almost forgotten how, even the waiting for them, could be so stomach-tighteningly, nerve-jarringly, wonderfully, _awfully_ intense.

She wanted to shake herself, remind herself that she was far old to be dry mouthed and tingling at the prospect of being kissed. Wanted to, but couldn't; not with his dark gaze focussed so intensely on her, flicking from her eyes to her lips and back. It was impossible to do anything with him looking at her like that; even breathing became difficult, her chest suddenly too small to draw enough air into her body. Unable to bear the waiting any longer, she held out her hand, hoping that he wouldn't notice the tremble of her fingertips as his long fingers closed around hers and he allowed himself to be pulled gently towards her.

Time stretched between them.

It didn't slow down, or anything silly like that, but each moment seemed to become so much fuller than the one before. She felt a thousand different emotions bubble up inside her, noticed a thousand different things: The way even the red glow of the fire couldn't find a single lighter shade in the unrelenting blackness of his hair, the tiny scar above his lip, the sooty sweep of his lashes as his eyes were drawn once more to her lips, and coil of anticipation tightening inside her – all of it filled with such a sweet, fierce tension that she was frightened she might shatter. She was certain she counted a thousand heartbeats amid the rushing in her ears as he leaned towards her, slowly – _achingly_ slowly – and yet somehow too quickly for her to be able to do more than tilt her chin towards him in silent invitation, before his lips met hers.

It was a perfectly lovely kiss, she supposed. Rather chaste, his mouth closed, his lips pressed gently to hers. It was as polite and reserved as Snape always was around her and she scolded herself for feeling a little disappointed. She held his fingers tangled loosely in her own and solemnly kissed him back.

It was less than a minute before they broke apart. Hermione nervously cleared her throat.

"Well," she began, looking up cautiously, wondering where they might possibly go from here. Whatever platitude she had been about to offer died on her lips the moment she finally found the courage to look at him.

His dark eyes were filled with fire.

They seemed to burn with everything that had been missing from his kiss. Everything that she had been hoping for, but would have been hard pressed to put into words. Everything, she realised, dry-mouthed, that she suddenly needed rather badly.

With the fleeting thought that she might about to be a little bit _presumptuous_, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

He clearly hadn't been expecting her sudden assault. His hands flew to her waist to steady her, yet somehow they ended up against the pillows, landing gracelessly with a force that knocked the breath from her body. Hermione barely noticed. She just _kissed_ him.

He kissed her back just as savagely, and she opened her mouth eagerly beneath his. When he didn't take the advantage, she ran her tongue between his lips, shivering with delight when he responded, opening up to her and tasting her in return.

She was lost in the whirl of sensations, from his careful hands at her hips, to the slide of his tongue against hers, and giddy with the feel and the taste of him: butter, bitter chocolate, _magic_. A new tension filled her, flooding her veins until her blood seemed to thrum with the most acute longing. She let her hands wander, reaching where she could. His skin was warm beneath the cool cotton of his shirt, and she could feel light muscle coiled tense beneath that.

She wriggled against him, trying to press herself closer to him, anything to assuage the awful tension building inside her.

There was a sudden clatter as one of the cushions fell, knocking a forgotten teacup from the hearth where it smashed on the hard stone of the floor. They broke apart guiltily at the sudden noise, breathing hard. Hermione blinked, disorientated by the sudden intrusion of reality, as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Snape had already moved to his side of the fireplace, his whole being apparently focussed on tidying the mess their unexpected passion had left in its wake.

The moment had been broken, but, unlike the cup, could not be fixed with the wave of a wand. Awkwardness trickled into the room as Hermione adjusted her clothes. She had yet to catch her breath. The tingle in her lips told her that they were probably swollen, and she knew her hair must be mussed beyond repair. Mostly she was aware that her hands had been pulling at his shirt only moments before; it had come untucked from his trousers, giving him a rakish look at odds with normally fastidious appearance. It hadn't been consciously done.

The fire had burnt down to ash and a few glowing embers, and without the warmth of his weight, Hermione became conscious of the slight chill of the dungeon air. The moon filled the window now, its cold light robbing the room of colour. The remains of their not-quite-picnic lay discarded and grey on the floor. She glanced at her watch, surprised to find that it was after midnight.

Snape caught the gesture. "It's getting late."

"Yes," she agreed, sadly. "I suppose it is."

They didn't encounter anyone on their silent walk back to her rooms. Hermione paused at the doorway, wondering if she ought to invite him inside. It was late, but she found herself unwilling to let things end the way this way, with barely a word spoken between them since the clatter of the breaking teacup had intruded to abruptly upon their embrace.

Perhaps it was for the best, she mused, as he wished her a rather formal goodnight and disappeared into the gloom. Neither of them were the sort to rush anything, and this thing between them felt too new, too delicate, to be mishandled. Had he stayed, she would not have been able to resist asking him about what had just happened, demanding if he had been as affected by those kisses as she had. It was a fault of hers, she supposed, wanting to dissect things until she understood them. She wanted to understand Severus Snape very much.

He was just such a mystery. She couldn't claim to have known him before the war. Their interactions had been limited to a few hours of lessons per week and the occasional – well, slightly more than occasional – fraught confrontation, usually centred on Harry. Despite everything that had been revealed about his actions and reasons during the conflict, she had to admit that she had only recently begun to glimpse the man he really was.

Also, if she was being honest, she didn't quite trust herself to be alone with him again just yet. If he had stayed, she would have wanted to kiss him. And if she had kissed him . . . Well, at some point earlier that evening, caught in his arms, she had unconsciously decided that she didn't want to stop. Had the cup not broken she would be there still, pulling his clothing aside.

It was a little embarrassing.

Spontaneity was one thing – she had learned the hard way that life rarely fell in line with meticulous planning – yet it had shocked her just how little she had considered her actions. It had been as if nothing else had mattered so long as he had kept pressing his lips so urgently against hers.

She doubted that he'd been any more in control of his reaction than she had; he'd certainly pulled away from her as if he had been scalded. She felt the first real twinge of doubt. Perhaps it had been too fast. For both of them.

After all, the first steps of their tentative friendship had been marked a tender caution that had only added to the delight she found in their growing closeness. Yes, they had begun slowly and gently, and this new development could continue to unfold that way. She would be sensible.

Yet being sensible could start tomorrow.

That night, lying in bed, she traced her fingers across her stomach, trying to recapture the sweet, shivery sensation that had filled her belly as his weight had pressed her back amongst the cushions. Capture it and keep it, if possible. She could still feel the ghost of his mouth against hers, the huff of his breath against her cheek. She didn't want to sleep, not if it meant loosing this delicious feeling.

When Hermione arrived for breakfast the next morning, Snape's chair was empty. She took her seat as normal, poured herself a cup of tea, and began to fret.

Snape was a creature of habit – their weekly get-togethers in her little office were proof enough of that – and she had always got the feeling that structure was important to him. He became unsettled whenever she was late and was always perfectly punctual himself. When she had invited him into her rooms outside of their allotted meeting time, he had grown uneasy and hadn't been able to settle. As such this break in routine, tiny though it was, unnerved her.

As breakfast progressed and his seat remained vacant, she automatically presumed the worst

She'd been so happy last night that she'd never stopped to wonder if anything had been awry. She was so used to his frequent and abrupt silences that she hadn't minded at all when he'd seemed disinclined to talk after they had kissed. It had been a large step in their relationship and it made sense that they take the time to process what had happened.

But what if it hadn't been an ordinary silence? What if —

The chair beside her scraped heavily across the worn flagstones as it was pulled back and there was a rustle of underskirts as an exhausted Madam Pomfrey dropped into the seat beside her and reached for the teapot.

"Why can't students ever try and kill themselves on Wednesday afternoons?" she demanded sleepily. She took a long drink then began ladling porridge into her bowl. "I've lost count of the number of times I've been summoned to the infirmary at two in the morning. Would you be a dear and butter some toast for me to take to Professor Snape?"

"What's going on?"

"Haven't you heard?" She nodded towards the Ravenclaw table. "A third year, Mr Hargreaves, attempted brewing Polyjuice Potion to impress his girlfriend. It went wrong of course," she surmised, giving Hermione a stern look while she sprinkled sugar over her porridge. "As they always do."

"Is he alright?"

"He will be," came the prosaic answer, "once we work out how to treat him. He's somehow got stuck mid transformation, leaving him with only one eye and no mouth to speak of. If you'll excuse the pun. Looks frightful."

"Oh." Hermione coloured, wondering if her own mishap with the potion had been discussed quite so openly amongst the staff.

"Of course, he can't tell us where he went wrong, so poor Severus is having to reverse the effects of an unknown variable. And as the poor boy can't swallow he's going to have to find a way to administer the antidote topically."

Hermione began buttering the toast, carefully spreading the butter right into the corners. "I hate to add to poor Mr Hargreaves suffering, but have you considered a tube down the nose into the stomach?" She added a thin layer of marmalade, making sure she avoided the larger pieces of peel.

"That sounds horrible," the mediwitch agreed. "Ingenious Muggles. I'll suggest it to Severus." She pushed her bowl away and accepted the neatly wrapped napkin full of toast. "Right, I'd best get back. It's unsporting to leave anyone alone with our Potions Master for too long, especially when he hasn't had any sleep."

Alone again, Hermione felt her initial relief fade into disappointment. She had hoped to see Snape again that evening, but if he had been up all night tending to an errant student then there was little chance of him wanting to do anything other than slink back to his chambers to rest. She found herself harbouring distinctly ill feeling towards Anthony Hargreaves. Then, remembering her own uncomfortable time spent in the infirmary thanks to that particular potion, she felt a little guilty. The poor boy had to be terrified.

Still, it didn't change the fact that she was unlikely to see Snape that day. Saturday would be completely dominated by the Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin Quidditch match and the subsequent celebrations. This years Hufflepuff team were favourites to win and the competition was likely to be fierce. Hufflepuff as a whole seemed far more ambitious and outspoken than they had when she was student and were easily as boisterous as the Gryffindors. She wasn't sure if this was a recent occurrence or if she'd simply been too partisan to notice when she was younger. Either way, none of the staff were likely to have a moment's peace all weekend.

She made her way thoughtfully to her classroom to make sure everything was ready for that morning's lessons. When a student jostled her on the stairs she was rather glad of the opportunity to dock five points from Ravenclaw.

-x-

To almost universal surprise, Slytherin trounced Hufflepuff. It turned out that Mr Hargreaves was dating Hufflepuff's star Chaser, Amanda McCarthy, and his continued seclusion in the hospital wing had affected her play. Hermione had sat next to Snape in the Teachers' Stand, but his eyes had been glued to the game for the entire three hours that it took for anyone to notice the Snitch. She was rather glad she'd thought to bring a book.

Unhappily, the week progressed in a similar vein. The Slytherin celebrations grew so out of hand that Snape spent much of Sunday and Monday supervising detentions. Tuesday night Hermione had agreed to adjudicate the monthly Gobstones Club meeting and Wednesdays were set aside for her advanced Arithmancy revision sessions. By the time Thursday rolled around she was conscious that the evening would mark the first week's anniversary of their kiss without their having shared a single moment alone together since.

It was too long a delay. The things she had longed to say to him the following day now sounded stilted and rehearsed, simply because they were rehearsed. She'd taken to whispering them under her breath at the oddest moments, for the release of actually saying them aloud, even if only to herself. The memory of his touch had begun to fade, replayed too often to rekindle that initial jolt of desire. It was worrying.

Things were made that much harder by the public persona he presented to the world. It didn't occur to her that she might be able to speak to him privately whilst on public display. Talking to him about anything was difficult enough. The demands of his work seemed to leave him little time to linger. For a man who seemed to dislike teaching, he was more committed to his responsibilities than anyone else she knew.

That afternoon, after lunch, she found a reason to approach him. It could have waited until that evening, except it really, truly couldn't. She caught him before he could disappear back into the dungeons, a roll of parchment clasped in her hand.

"I'm about to move the sixth years onto Applied Arithmancy. I've made a list of possible potions where the interaction between ingredients can be easily calculated before hand. I was wondering if you might consider brewing them in class so that they can see it in practise. Or, if your schedule's too tight, I wondered if I might make use of one of the labs one evening?"

He held out his hand. "We'll see."

She held out the list, then hesitated.

"And?" he pressed, his attention already straying to the students congregating in the stairwell.

"Well," she replied neutrally. "It's Thursday."

"I know what day it is!" he snapped, taking the parchment from her hands and stalking off before she had time to reply.

Hermione felt herself grow cold.

She _knew_ that Snape could be short-tempered. She'd been on the receiving end of his temper countless times before. But never as an adult. Never since they'd begun to grow close.

She sat beside him that evening in the staffroom. Her skin prickled at his nearness, but this time with lingering anger and uncertainty. When he took a battered roll of mints from his pocket and offered one to her she shook her head, her attention never straying from the Headmistress. She had covered her parchment in careful notes about improvements to safety and the need to re-establish international ties before she grasped that they were discussing the Tournament again.

The heads of house were asked to stay behind and Hermione slipped away without a backwards glance.

She was toying with lesson plans when a knock sounded at the door. A quick glance at the clock told her it was ten minutes after their usual meeting time and Hermione paused before crossing the room. She knew it was him; what she was less certain of was what he was likely to say to her once she opened the door. Or is she dared say the things she had planned to tell him.

She opened the door but didn't invite him inside. He didn't ask to enter. They stood in the doorway, waiting for the other to speak. He looked uncomfortable, as if he knew his words would likely be unwelcome. Finally it was Snape that broke the silence.

"I should apologise."

That surprised her. She hadn't thought him the type to apologise for anything. Watching him now, she wondered where she had gained that opinion. He was a man famous for living his entire adult life in contrition. "Yes?"

"When you came to my rooms. I didn't mean to—" he swallowed. "That is, I hope I didn't scare you."

Again, she found herself taken by surprise. All the things that had caused her doubt or discomfort, this was not one of them.

There would be no apology for snapping at her, she realised; she doubted he even knew that he had done it. He snapped at everyone from time to time and it would be unusual if he never let her see that side of him. As for the coolness between them, well, he had never openly engaged her in public. There had been no time for private exchanges, but she had _known_ there had never been any questions of public ones.

She wondered how much courage it had taken to come here tonight when he was so uncertain of his welcome. He looked so very nervous that she found she couldn't punish him for those things, not when he had been worrying over her reaction to something else altogether.

"No. No, you didn't scare me."

"Good." Some of the tension left his face. "Will you let me keep coming to see you like this?"

"Of course," she began, wondering how to let him know that he wasn't entirely off the hook. The careful rebuke never came as he did something else unexpected. He smiled.

It transformed his face as before, his whole countenance softening with mingled relief and happiness. The remains of her anger, fickle thing that it was, melted away along with any thoughts of censure_._

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she offered, standing back to let him into the room.

"Yes, please," he answered. He smiled again, only briefly this time, a tiny twitch of boyish joy lightening his face. Hermione did the only thing she could.

She smiled back.

* * *

><p><em>Should anyone be willing to help beta this story I would be only too pleased to hear from you. Just one warning: there will be smut.<em>


	3. Frustration

_**A/N:** Huge thanks go to my beautiful alpha, **Sixpence Jones**, and the equally wonderful **Melusin** for her super fast beta skillz. Any remaining mistakes are mine. _

_Sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter published! Blame real life and the need to work._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

**Frustration**

* * *

><p>"<em>Will you let me keep coming to see you like this?"<em>

"_Of course."_

How could she deny him that? Moreover, how could she deny herself? What would her life at Hogwarts be like without his visits? They had been friends – tentative friends, perhaps, but definitely enjoying one another's company – for some time now. When she thought back to the time before she had persuaded him to follow her back from that staff meeting, she had the suspicion that she'd been much lonelier than she had admitted, even to herself.

Even her quarters were a friendlier place since his arrival. Strange, considering his reputation for _un_friendliness, but true all the same.

Somehow, his presence had gone a long way to transform her small office from the institutional, white-washed cubbyhole that had confronted her upon her arrival to the homely little space that now greeted her at the end of each day. She had never been the sort to collect ornaments, but now her shelves teemed with assorted objects d'art. Crystal phials, tiny scales that dealt in feather weights, measures carved from polished stone, and bundles of old parchment all vied for space with her text books, several shelves of old Muggle paperbacks and some of the more esoteric Potions texts she'd bought for Snape's perusal. The little room had a very homey feel to it now, as if she had lived there far longer than four short terms. Her bedroom, in comparison, had all the personality of a mid-price hotel room. If it weren't for the photo of her parents beside her bed, the room could have belonged to anyone.

Yes, Snape's awkward visits had somehow made her more at home in the castle than she ever had been in her shared dormitory as a student. Sharing her space with him had made it somehow more her own. The expectation of a visitor meant that she always had a packet of biscuits in her desk and fresh flowers by the window.

There were other differences, too. She never bothered to make a pot of tea for just herself, preferring to summon drinks from the kitchens, one cup at a time. Elf-made tea might taste better than anything she could produce by her tiny sink, but the gentle process of warming the pot and measuring the leaves had a soothing appeal all of its own. Now, the time-honoured ceremony had the additional benefit of allowing her a few minutes to marshal her thoughts.

The last few days, when she had believed that she had somehow lost him, had been so very sad. Perhaps she ought to be angry with him for putting her through something like that, but she was too happy to have him back to allow any crossness to ruin the evening. Besides, any anger she may have felt would have to war with the sudden, overwhelming feeling of nervousness that caused her hand to tremble slightly as she lifted the dainty cover from the milk jug.

* * *

><p>Hermione had been fifteen when the Triwizard Tournament had last visited Hogwarts. It had been an overblown, anxious affair, full of needless danger. For Hermione, it had also been something of an awakening. At the Yule Ball, which she had attended with an internationally renowned athlete, dressed in periwinkle blue dress robes, she had announced her arrival, not only as a woman, but as a witch. No longer playing at magic in her plain school robes, but ready to take her place amongst the pure-bloods, champions, scholars and politicians whose eyes were drawn to her. Krum, her escort, had been quietly appreciative, but it was the looks she had drawn from others – half-incredulous, half-admiring – that had affected her most. In that moment, twirling gracefully on the dance floor, she had felt the first inklings of the sort of power a woman could hold. Later, Ron had punctured her fragile new self-confidence rather abruptly, but even that bitter sting had held something of a triumph. Despite her initial conviction that she must have been mistaken, there was no denying that he had been jealous.<p>

Before the combination of Ronald Weasley, too much sugary punch, and an excess of wild, tangling new emotions had managed to ruin her night, there had been another moment of discovery. It had come after she and Viktor had stepped outside the Great Hall to escape the heat and the press of the festivities. They had wandered down the silent corridors: at first at ease with one another, then with growing tension. Hermione had become increasingly aware that their previous dynamic – mostly consisting of her studying and his observing – was about to change. They had seated themselves on a plinth beneath a statue and begun to talk. Slowly, Viktor's hand had slid towards hers until their fingers were just touching. Fully aware of what was happening and not entirely certain if she wished to proceed, she had watched and waited in almost breathless anticipation as he had inched towards her. By the time his eyes had become heavy and his lips parted, giving him a slow, sleepy appearance, she had decided that, yes, it was about time that something like this happened to her.

The waiting had been the worst part. The shock of his mouth against hers paled at the unpleasant, compelling feeling of his tongue between her lips. It had been strange – alien – but it had been important. The worst, best part had been the tension coiling through her entire body that had thrilled and scared her in equal measure.

She hadn't thought about it in years. There had been nothing like that with Ron. They had been friends for so long that there had been no need for shy glances or wondering what to say. If she was honest, she'd been grateful for it. There had been too much heartache following the war to cope with any further anxiety. His kisses had never challenged her.

It had never occurred to her that she might have missed out.

Now, with Snape back in her rooms, waiting quietly as she warmed the teapot, that delicious tension was stealing back into her stomach.

* * *

><p>The teapot sat between them, taking its own precious time to transform dried leaves and water into a potion that even Muggles could appreciate. Silence had crept into the room, bringing awkwardness with it. Her feelings were so frustratingly teenaged that she found herself tongue-tied and clumsy next to him, especially now, perched on the edge of her seat, her knee almost brushing his.<p>

If she were feeling especially daring, she could simply reach out and place her fingers on his thigh. . .

. . . with unsteady fingers, she reached out and poured a splash of milk into each cup.

* * *

><p>Now, the Tournament was approaching again. Soon the school would be overrun by children from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang and a whole delegation of Aurors, just in case.<p>

And now, like then, she could feel the beginning of something important, teetering on the edge of something new with Snape.

_With_ _Severus_, she realised, tasting the name with her mind. He hadn't invited any of the younger teachers to use his given name – and besides, she always thought of him as _Snape_ – yet, for a moment, she wondered what it would be like to call him _Severus_. She couldn't quite imagine it. It was odd; she could imagine lying in his arms – had replayed that kiss many times over in the last week – yet couldn't bring herself to speak his name aloud.

She had been aware of him since she was a child, but even now she could not claim to know him. He was too self-contained, too tightly wrapped in his black robes for her to easily understand. Despite having fought on the same side of a war, there was no gentle camaraderie between them, no running jokes or easy smiles. Being with Snape was as intense as being taught by him. When she felt his dark eyes tracking her movements, she would become self-conscious and unsure and desperately eager to please.

He hadn't even noticed her until she had returned to teach. She might have believed that he had chosen to pursue her simply because she was convenient. A single woman with similar interests who already knew his past and lived at the school with him. She might have believed that, had it not been for the kiss they had shared in front of the fire. That had been no chaste peck, but a passionate, determined embrace. It still made her stomach quiver to think that he had responded to her like that.

Had he been anyone else, she would have jumped at the first opportunity to kiss him again. As it was, she daren't even use his first name. Even in her imagination, he was still Snape.

She fiddled with the tea things, playing for time as she considered her hesitance around him. There was no reason for it, she decided, other than _his_ hesitance around her.

* * *

><p>The visiting students would only be there until the end of the winter term, meaning that there would be less of an impact on the older students as they approached their final exams. There would still be three trials, but they would only be a week apart. The Goblet of Fire would still be used for choosing the champions, but several spells around it would be deactivated, meaning that it would no longer create a magically binding contract between the champions and the competitions. Nor would there be any dragons. It was going to be completely different.<p>

There would still be a Yule Ball, though.

* * *

><p>Snape had always defied definition. When she had been a child, she had initially believed him to be a cruel but effective teacher, given to favouring his own house over the others. Before her first year had ended, she had become convinced that he was the worst sort of villain, capable of theft and even murder. That notion had been swiftly disproved, but some lingering doubts about his loyalties had remained. Throughout her schooling, her opinion of him had been shaken to its foundations time and again. For a girl who had loved to be able to impose order on the world around her, his refusal to be categorised had unsettled her.<p>

He unsettled her.

* * *

><p>Somehow, she managed to pour the tea without any upset. Her thoughts were scattered tonight – or would have been had they not been eager to centre upon one man.<p>

_Severus._

Rather than hand him the cup, she placed it on the table to the side.

"Will you kiss me again?" she breathed.

He looked up, his brow creased. "Now?" he wondered.

"Yes," she whispered, leaning close. "Now."

He kissed her with that same surprising gentleness, his mouth closed, his lips just pressing against hers. The tension that had followed her all evening didn't lessen. If anything it sharpened, sending tiny spikes of cold electricity down her arms and along her sides, leaving her shivering in their wake.

She opened her mouth beneath his, and this time there was no hesitation in his response. His lips parted and his tongue met hers, flooding her senses with the feel and the taste of him. She moaned, softly.

There was no rush to this embrace. He seemed determined to kiss her, kiss her until neither had breath left in their bodies, kiss her until she had all but melted underneath his touch. His hand remained chastely resting on her arm, though his fingers occasionally tightened almost painfully as she flicked her tongue against his.

The angle was awkward, each leaning towards the other, knees pressed together, armrests digging into ribs.

By the time they broke apart, their tea was cold. A glance at the clock above her desk informed her that, once again, time had run away from them as they embraced.

"You should be in bed," he cautioned.

"Yes," she agreed, wistfully, watching his face. "I should."

* * *

><p>She walked the few feet to the door with him, not quite ready for the evening to end. He paused at the threshold, the open door a reminder that the world and Hogwarts awaited just outside. Hermione found herself longing for an evening that didn't have to end; a time and a place where reality didn't have to intrude and end those glorious kisses before they even had time to begin.<p>

"Goodnight, then." He nodded.

She tilted her chin slightly, hoping that he might consent to one last goodnight kiss. She was disappointed, but not surprised, when he turned and strode away. She couldn't help but stand and watch until he was swallowed up by the darkness of the night.

A new routine had been established.

* * *

><p>He would visit her much as before. She might long to hold his hand or run her fingers through his mess of hair, but something about the way he carried himself always stilled her hand. They would talk of lessons, or people, or books. She would sit on the very edge of her chair, watching, waiting for him to look at her for long enough for her to glimpse the fire in his dark eyes.<p>

Then, when he left, he would kiss her goodnight.

Sometimes she longed for those kisses all week. Yet, when they finally arrived, she would be shy, embarrassed by her reaction to his nearness. He grew in confidence, teasing her mouth open with his tongue. His hands, resting conservatively on her waist, would soon be all that was supporting her as her legs began to tremble.

He would kiss her until she was breathless, then pull away, some ready excuse on his lips as he made his apologies and left. She wondered if he delighted in frustrating her. He would wait until she was writhing against him or moaning softly into his mouth, then find an excuse to leave.

She couldn't understand his reserve. He was older than her, it was true, but she was certain she had never given him the impression that she needed to be cosseted or protected, least of all from him. Perhaps it was a question of upbringing. She knew he was a half-blood, yet his mother had been pure-blood, and he had done much of his growing up in the pure-blood dominated house of Slytherin. Was he following some archaic etiquette that she knew nothing about? Was she, in her enthusiasm, betraying her Muggle roots?

She wondered if she ought to feel embarrassed. She had always been proud of her Muggle heritage before, happy to acknowledge both parts of her life. Now she couldn't help but wonder if he didn't find her insistence a little vulgar. These thoughts would creep up on her sometimes, especially when she watched him amongst others, his interactions so careful and measured. It was easy then to imagine he might be uncomfortable with her expectations.

Yet when they were together, all doubts flew away. He might wish to take things slowly, but there was no doubting that he wanted her. No one could kiss like that and not feel something. They weren't just kisses for the sake of kissing – they were leading to something, of that she was certain. They might start chastely enough, but by the time he pulled away from her, his breathing would be just as uneven as hers, his dark eyes alight.

* * *

><p>Trying to get to know him better was making about as much progress. She didn't feel she had the right to pry in to many aspects of his life. He was generally very reticent when it came to talking about himself. Much of what she knew about him had come second- or third-hand from Harry or even the <em>Daily Prophet<em>.

She had never been the type to bat her eyelashes and invite a man to tell her all about himself, but she found herself wishing she were slightly more adept at coaxing Snape to be a little more forthcoming.

"What's your favourite colour?" she tried.

He gave the matter some serious consideration. "I don't think I have one," he replied. "There's nothing particularly offensive abut blue."

She would just have to content herself with little things, she decided. She knew how he liked his tea, for starters. That he liked marmalade, but disliked the pieces of peel contained therein.

* * *

><p>She was never certain how to act around him during the day. She took a seat beside him in meetings and for meals, but was never sure how to behave. It seemed implausible that he would expect her to pretend that she hadn't spent the previous evening caught in his arms, yet his own behaviour seemed to signify just that.<p>

Hermione had never considered how taking a place beside him had placed her close to the centre of the table; only the Heads of Houses sat closer to the Headmistress than she. His status within the school had lowered since the war, despite his inclusion amongst the heroes, but as far as she could tell, this was mostly down to himself. He never seemed to push himself forward anymore. She'd never known him to make a demand of the Headmistress as he had of Professor Dumbledore, never seen him involve himself in the affairs of students from outside his house, beyond academic requirements. He taught his classes, fulfilled any supervisory requirements made of him, but otherwise seemed to step back into the shadows.

It was just so difficult, being continually on display to the students and faculty. The truth was that Hermione had known that she would be expected to set a good example to the students when she had accepted the position. What she hadn't expected was for her resolve to be tested each time she sat down to breakfast.

Most days Hermione settled for scrambled eggs on toast and what limited conversation she could coax from him. She tried to avoid the fattier breakfast items on offer, but knew she would be starving by lunch time if she limited herself to fruit. Besides, all that acid wasn't good for the teeth. Glancing round for the pepper, she smiled to see it being placed precisely by the edge of her plate.

It was almost impossible to eat after that. The toast tasted almost of nothing, but she chewed each mouthful mechanically, the bite of the pepper like a promise on her tongue.

It was silly to feel so giddy. All he had done was pass the condiments without being asked; she was far too old to have butterflies in her stomach simply because the boy she liked had acknowledged her. Her eyes strayed to the Gryffindor table. Perhaps it was because the last time she had felt like this, in this very Hall, her feelings had been unrequited, or at least overlooked. It had been agony at the time to hold such feelings alone. It was too soon to try and label whatever was happening, but knowing that her regard was accepted and reciprocated was heady stuff, indeed. For Snape, that had practically been a public display of affection.

It felt as if she was guarding the most delicious secret.

It was the sign she hadn't realised she had been waiting for.

Her days continued much as before. She planned her lessons, taught her classes and marked her assignments. She tried to find as many little ways as possible to be near him, but in truth there were few. She sat beside him, choosing the seat next to his even if there was another free. She wished him good morning or good afternoon. She waited, biding her time until she had him to herself once more.

* * *

><p>Thursday took forever to arrive.<p>

When it did, Hermione found herself unable to settle, fluttering constantly between the tea things, the archaic logic puzzle she had set up on her desk to entertain her guest, and _him_. He had arrived, punctually as ever, dressed in his usual swathes of black, looking almost at ease as he settled back to sip from his teacup.

She wondered if perhaps that was what she had become to him – a place where he could relax and feel accepted. In itself that was rather lovely, but she felt a sharp disappointment akin to pain at the idea he might not wish for more. She had come to a decision regarding Severus Snape, and now all she needed was the courage to carry it through. Such dampening thoughts did nothing for her resolve.

Hermione watched her visitor carefully that night, trying to ascertain his intentions. He had admitted to his wish to _court_ her, yet he had given no signs of meaning to take their relationship forward.

So it was up to her.

_That_ was her decision. She'd chosen against formulating a plan as those tended to go disastrously awry. Besides, Snape was not someone you could manipulate, not if you ever wished to hold his regard.

They talked quietly and drank their tea. Then, that night, as he went to leave, as was his want, he kissed her.

It started slowly, gently, pressure and excitement building slowly as he stoked the banked embers within her with his clever tongue. His touch affected her as strongly as ever, but she tried to blink the growing, coiling tension aside to focus on him. Was his breathing a fraction louder than usual? Was his grip on her waist a trifle firmer than before?

It was no use. He had learnt her well enough to know how to demand that every ounce of her attention be focussed on the glorious friction of his mouth on hers. Her eyes drifted shut, and she began to slump against him, small sounds of pleasure muffled by his lips, but growing ever louder as he deepened the kiss. His teeth caught her lower lip, nipping it with the exact amount of pressure to force the delighted gasp from deep within her chest. Then, just as her hands began a slow migration from his chest towards his hair, he started to gentle the kiss and pull away.

This time, she followed him, steering him slowly, inexorably towards the wall until his back met the smooth wood of the door. His brow furrowed slightly as he watched her, and she prayed that it was confusion she read there, not outright displeasure.

She closed the space between them, reaching up to kiss him again.

The softest sound escaped him, barely audible above the crackle of the fire and the rustle of robes; the softest, quietest of moans. Undone, she pressed herself against him, crushing her breasts against his chest as she sought to get as close to him as possible, winding her fingers into his hair. At first she thought he was going to respond as he had that first night, in front of the fire. His breathing hitched, and his hands tightened at her waist – _always_ her waist, her hips, her arms – never once had his hands strayed beyond what could be considered gentlemanly. An aching need had begun to grow inside her, and she kissed him harder, desperate arousal warring with growing frustration at his careful, controlled response.

Any thoughts of a careful seduction fled as she writhed against him, seeking the relief that his polite touches would never provided. The ache increased to an erratic, needy throb, and her breath was shallow and fast as she ground her hips against his.

He hissed, trying to ease her gently away, but the sound was lost by her sudden cry of triumph. He stilled, and she pulled back enough to glimpse his face. He was wide-eyed, not meeting her gaze, but there was no denying his attraction to her now, not when she could feel the hard length of him pressed against her stomach.

She didn't dare raise her voice above a whisper as she asked the breathless question that might change everything.

"Do you want me?"

"I enjoy our time together," he hedged. Was his breathing unsteady? Was that the slightest flush to his cheeks or simply the reflected glow of the fire? Why did her voice have to shake when his sounded so steady? "We share some similar interests and—"

"Not my companionship," she interrupted, then blushed, wondering if he'd heard the rawness in her voice. "Not _just_ my companionship," she amended, steeling herself. "Do you want me in your bed?"

He swallowed. "Yes."

"Then don't go," she whispered. "Stay here, with me."

* * *

><p><em>And there you go . . .<em>


End file.
